I finally got the world's attention and this is what I waste it with.

Somewhere on this crazy earth
my hero's blood is being spilled
and there is not a goddamn thing
that I can do about it

But the song must write itself, Kid.

Staring at the light in the center
of the ceiling until my eyes burn
in case it helps them close for good
for the night, despite the noise from the party.
Propped up on a pillow
with a pulled muscle in my shoulder
for going on a week now.
Cuts and burns on my hand from work
soldering and other sins at fault
two mangled stumps of faulty flesh.
You don't know the song stuck in my head
and how hard I try to ignore it, for your sake.

It used to be my thing; it's not anymore:
the war waged, all of their faces Hers
when the lights went off, but when
it didn't feel the same, even after they'd let me again
sober in the morning
I'd come to as if from a Costner film
only to be frightened by Gravity until
I'd feign sleep and they'd gather what was left
of their dignity and clothes, and leave.

When the process repeated the next weekend
I'd have to act surprised like a contestant on The Price is Right
in order to pull it off, not that I wanted to--
a new contender up to bat
a new lamb on the chopping block
a new old modus operandi.

But who the fuck am i kidding
the stock market fell out yesterday
and me and the rest of my union brethren
lost an assload of money
and the government tried to step in
which shows there's no real capitalism
no laissez faire
and no point in capitalization
and i dropped the f-bomb oh-so-soon
so in other words, it's another empty glass
and we're all dead and we don't even know it yet:
aperture, motherfuckers.
aperture.

my nextdoor neighbor drives a grand marquis circa 1987
and every time i watch him pull into his driveway i'm in awe
of his obvious dedication to routine maintenance.

i thought of sending a few blank messages
but realized i didn't care
what the response would be, though
i could use a few new synonyms for 'asshole'
just to keep things fresh.

so yes, it's been too much wine
and he told me to "drop the eggplant"
as the purple lips moved arbitrarily
muttering something to the effect of
"no, no. that's tomorrow."

sometimes i worry too much about
metaphor, transparency, and the hits, but
what's it really matter if you score a hundred
or a thousand? they're gonna look either way
trainwreck or a fender-bender.

you know you've had enough
when you can't pour the wine with elegance anymore
when it comes out not so smooth as a morning beer piss
but choppy and sporadic like a State School whiskey shit
and how the balls did i blow a full scholarship?
oh, Right...

(the slice of the butcher knife in the crease of my thumb
hasn't stopped bleeding yet
so i just keep sucking
and so does this.)

there was a bar that closed down in Vails Gate
where every week the same loser crowd would show
and where did they all go?
probably back to their parents' basements
and jobs pushing carts in grocery store parking lots--
no really, they did...both.

pictures of people i graduated with at the Blue Martini--
maybe i could've stopped her from becoming a dike.

and the greatest insult of all time (drum roll, please):
"you're too pussy to off yourself."
but at least i didn't chop my hair off after the break-up
(why do girls do that? you're still the same pains in the ass!)

remember when it was 'friggin' this and 'friggin' that
and if someone fucked someone they 'scored'?
ah, the influence of Beavis & Butthead on American society...

it's like laying in your bath water, somehow.

in case you've just tuned in:
i am a raging something-or-other.

...but I blame it on my partner in Crime
I picked up from the impound.
He brought me bottles of red (red) wine
and this is how I thank you all.